


Talk Some Sense to Me

by rideswraptors



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post phone call
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-11 01:18:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12311793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: Fallout from The Phone Call





	1. I'll Use You as a Makeshift Gauge

**Author's Note:**

> Please ignore/forgive gratuitous inconsistencies, thanks!

Mycroft sent his people to sweep Molly’s flat, just as a precaution, and to dismantle Eurus’ cameras. When he got the text that Molly was nowhere to be found, Sherlock was paralyzed for precisely one minute and thirty-eight seconds before the answer became frighteningly obvious. It was approximately one minute and eighteen seconds longer than it should have taken him to reach that conclusion. However, given his emotionally compromised state, he could hardly be surprised. He left John and Rosie in Mrs. Hudson’s capable hands; St. Bart’s was only a short cab drive away, but it felt like an eternity. Realizing that parts of you had externalized in order to internally compartmentalize was not at all comfortable or familiar to Sherlock. It certainly did not help that those pieces had been given to someone else without his consent or knowledge.

*

She shouldn’t have been surprised. Even though she’d locked the doors, turned out most of the lights, took over for the night shift pathologist, his familiar shadow nevertheless loomed in the doorway. There were no new patients, so she’d spread her paperwork across the autopsy table, appreciating the brighter lights and open space. Perhaps most people believed that Molly Hooper would retreat to booze and ice cream to drown her sorrows. But Sherlock Holmes was not most people, and he, more than most, understood the soothing prowess of the work.

*

He didn’t knock. Didn’t even try the door. He simply waited. He’d wait until she was done distracting herself, or until she noticed him and was ready. Just as she’d asked, he went first, and she could choose to follow.

*

Molly stared at the entrance to the autopsy room for a long time, pen in hand, but still she didn’t move. She watched his form lean back against the hall wall, not leaving the entryway and making no attempt to come in. It was a game. It had to be a game.

Not the usual game. Certainly not one he’d played with her before. Destroy her utterly and then hang back. Not his usual modus operandi. He liked to prove his superiority, to prove he was right. This was not that. But with Sherlock, Molly was utterly exhausted of uncertainty, and so she decided to ignore him and finish her work. It was 2 AM, so there was no point in leaving it unfinished.

She was reviewing the last week’s reports. Heart attack. Stroke. Cancer. Blunt force trauma from a car accident. Suicide by hanging. Accidental drowning. Another heart attack. She was checking their intern’s notes on each case, reviewing the findings by the other supervisors, and signing off release orders to funeral homes or otherwise. It was mindless, hypnotic work, checking off every item on her list for each page, going through the motions, watching the to-do pile diminish as the polished off finished pile grew. She lost track of time, until her usual 5 AM alarm went off, pulling her from her entranced stupor. Shocking how much you could accomplish when you didn’t have to _think_.

Not that she’d forgotten about Sherlock. She turned off the alarm on her phone and lifted her head to check the door. Gone. Figured. Molly didn’t give herself one moment to dwell on it, though. She immediately went to her locker for her coat and bag. She left the lights on, knowing the next morgue crew would arrive in a few hours, and unlocked the door.

Molly stopped short of screaming, but she couldn’t help the jump and dropping her phone.

Sherlock sat on the floor, back to the wall, long legs stretched out before him. It took her a long few seconds to get her heart rate back under control and collect herself, but he made no comment. Instead, all he did was reach up to hand her the phone. When his fingers lingered, Molly actually got a good look at him.

And he looked _awful_. White as a sheet, hair more frazzled than usual, hands raw and bloody—

“Sherlock!” she gasped, nearly dropping her phone again in favor of taking his hands. Without another word she was turning back into the autopsy room.

*

Sherlock watched her disappear behind the doors, presumably to gather supplies for his rather disastrous looking hands. Though he’d hardly be surprised if she’d gone for something deadlier just to put him out of his misery. He couldn’t stop himself from hanging his head.

*

Molly scrambled together what she could and came back rather quickly, she thought, only to find him drooping more than before. Panicked, and definitely thinking he was suffering from unseen injuries, she dropped to her knees and lifted his face to check his eyes. Alert. Focused. Pained. Whatever game he had decided to play that night, it was very obvious to her who had lost. She tilted her head to get a better look, to force his gaze to her. Clever boy, he was, he complied. She got all that she needed from their silent exchange. So she released him, sat herself next to him, snatched up his hand, and got to work cleaning and mending.

They were both silent as she worked, meticulously, knuckle by knuckle, finger by finger. She removed splinters, shooting him only a questioning look. This managed to turn his attention to the wall ahead of him. Fine. Without sedatives, she cleaned his hands, trimmed the rent skin, and then began stitching the skin together. It certainly couldn’t have been comfortable for him, but his only complaints were minute grimaces and the occasional fluttering of eyes. Once finished, she bandaged his hands, but lingered with the right one. She smoothed over the bandage more than strictly necessary, she held the weight of his hand in both of hers, and finally looked up at him.

Those eyes of his bore into her like flames to bare skin.  Sectoral heterchromia. His eyes. That’s what made them that color, the one that transitioned through the colors of the sea. She’d looked it up in a pathetic, drunken moment in the first years of knowing him. And right now? Blue, clear blue. She’d really only seen it two or three times in their acquaintance. Once was when he came to ask her to help kill himself.  

Their next exchange was silent, efficient more because of familiarity than anything else. With a heavy sigh, she turned to put her back to the wall next to him and dropped her head to his shoulder. She desperately tried to ignore the feel of his face in her hair, his nose pressed up against her head. Despite her attempt, she couldn’t ignore the way his hand tightened around hers, now fully ensconced in his lap. They sat like that for some time, both ignoring the obvious discomfort of the position. It just seemed the easiest. Here, they were in this nebulous space where nothing existed. Not London, not the morgue, not Molly, not Sherlock. Their fraught relationship didn’t exist, that phone call didn’t exist, the next conversation didn’t exist. She didn’t have to love him or hate him or do anything really, but sit there and breathe. But sooner or later, something would come blast that apart. Sherlock seemed to sense it too, squeezing her hand gently.

“What do you need?” he asked softly. His voice was so gentle, a tone she so rarely heard from him. A tone she maybe _never_ heard from him. And certainly not within that context.

“Umm…” She looked around blinking back into awareness, and realizing they were still in the morgue hallway close to the start of the next shift, and that she was sore. “Home.” That was the only word she could find. “Take me home.”

“Can’t. Not there.”

“What?” She turned her head sharply, only to find him looking away from her again. He seemed so small from this angle. Usually Sherlock Holmes appeared larger than life, above it all. But sitting on the floor next to Molly Hooper, he looked like any man who’d seen too much. Her hand dropped to his thigh. “Tell me.”

His eyes slid to hers again, “I will. But you’re not going back there. Not tonight.”

“Today, Sherlock, it’s morning.” His gaze was steady, but he didn’t respond. “What about Baker Street?”

“Blown up.”

“Again?”

His only response was a shrug. How many _times_ …?

“Didn’t you have that bolt hole in Brixton? Some flat or other?”

He dropped his head against the wall and let out a put-upon sigh, “Mycroft.” He lolled his head only to laugh softly at her confused expression. “I’ll send a text.” Then without preamble, he dropped a kiss to the top of her head, lumbered to his feet, and disappeared behind the autopsy room doors, phone and first aid supplies in hand. Molly let her eyes drift shut and tried not to listen to every protest in her head. _Weak. Pathetic._ But this wasn’t going as it usually did. She wasn’t alone with a pile of paper work or crap telly to keep her occupied. He was _here_. With her. And no, he had yet to apologize or explain, but the remorse was all over his face, in every etch of his form.

“Molly?”

He stood above her, like some dark angel, holding his hand out to help her up. She looked up at him only for a moment, saw the brief flash of doubt and discomfort on his face, and then immediately took his hand. She was surprised that despite his injuries, he could support her weight, helping her up easily. Molly was about to start walking wherever he would lead, but he kept hold of her hand completely ignoring his injuries, and tugged slightly.

“If you don’t mind…I…” he trailed off, her concern growing by the second. “I would like very much to keep you close for the time being.”

“Sherlock..?”

True panic glossed over his features, “Molly _please_.” His voice over the phone echoed in her ears. The raw edge of his voice, the worn lines on his face, the slump of his shoulders. Molly hadn’t ever seen this side of him. Not even when he was high.

What had they done to him this time? What had they done to _them_?

Without another word, she grabbed her bag and moved closer into him, keeping hold of his hand. She tried to be more considerate of his hands, tried to hold him carefully. Sherlock took only a moment to drop his forehead to hers before he was dragging her off through the building and out into the London morning. As soon as they hit the pavement, a black sedan was pulling up in front of them. Sherlock ushered her through the door and followed in quickly behind her. The car took off without either of them giving an address. But since Sherlock didn’t pay it any mind, neither did she. Remembering his request, she budged over, closer to him, and slid her arm through his. He didn’t say anything, but he did lean more heavily against her.

It took twenty minutes for them to arrive at a particularly dodgy looking building, but if Mycroft had selected it, then it was absolutely secure. And well-stocked.  Sherlock led her to a lift and hit the button for the second to last floor. It certainly appeared to be a normal building of flats with a normal lift. Still, she couldn’t help but drift closer towards Sherlock when the lift doors opened.

“No surprises here,” he muttered gravely. Of course, he waited for her to take the first steps out. There were only two doors on the floor. Sherlock went left. The sun was coming up, and they were up so high that there was a view of the river, sunlight reaching out towards it. The furnishings were sparse, but quite nice, and she could see there was a king size bed in the next room. Mycroft certainly knew how to pick real estate. She was so entranced by the view that she temporarily forgot about her companion. She spun on her heel, searching.

But she needn’t go far.

Before Molly could get steady on her feet, Sherlock was crashing into her, enveloping her in his arms and burying his face in her hair. With a slight sigh, Molly dropped her things to the floor and deftly worked off the Belstaff. Underneath, from what she could see, his shirt was more disheveled, his usual jacket missing. And when she began maneuvering them towards the bedroom. She was exhausted, he was very obviously exhausted, and if he wasn’t keen on being away from her, then they would just have to make do. It frightened her that he didn’t resist overly much.

They didn’t bother with the rest of their clothes or shoes, just sprawled out on the bed. Sherlock pulled her alongside him. She slotted herself nicely against him, head on his chest. They both stared in their respective directions, just breathing for a while. But finally, Molly’s anger and curiosity and tiredness caught up with her.

“Tell me,” her frown was so sharp that it pained her to keep it.

“We thought she was going to kill you.”

“Who?”

He was quiet for a short beat, “My sister.”

She could only sigh, “More Holmes family drama.”

“Indeed.”

Molly drew a hand over her eyes, slightly pinching the bridge of her nose. Her irritation abated somewhat when Sherlock’s hand came to draw it away, interlocking their fingers. The bandages felt so coarse compared to his skin, she rubbed her fingers along the edges, willing them to heal quickly.

“Start from the beginning,” Molly murmured on her exhale.

And so he did, every gruesome gory detail in perfectly laid out chronological order. Names, dates, memories restored. The whole of Sherlock Holmes bared out before her with a simple change in perspective. For him, it certainly must have been a gushing dam of realizations and doubts. But for Molly Hooper? Well, it just confirmed many things she already knew. It wasn’t her fault he was too much of a git to see it. She could tell that towards the end, he was leaving some details out. His speaking rate dropped, his heart rate increased, his words were less precise. He fixated on small details irrelevant to everyone else. Good deductive reasoning and a handy avoidance tactic all rolled into one. Some of his comments about her appearance were beginning to make much more sense.

Eventually, she had to stop him.

“Sherlock, what about your hands?” He’d not mentioned a damn word about fighting or getting roughed up. Just Eurus’ mind games. She felt rather than saw his confused head tilt. Mary had always said it reminded her of confused baby giraffe.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“ _Sherlock_.” If she’d been looking directly at him she would have seen that annoyingly peevish scowl.

“ _Obviously_ , I destroyed it.”

“For the ignorant people who weren’t there, please?” she snapped back, not even remotely in the mood for the snottiness. His response was so quiet that she didn’t hear him the first time, so she poked him in the stomach. “Ignorant people with _human_ ears, Mr. Holmes.” That did manage to get a chuckle out of him, weak as it was.

“The coffin,” he repeated softly, “I destroyed the coffin she made for you.” Molly sat up at that, staring down at him like she was seeing an entirely new person. For all she knew, she might have been.

“Why?” she demanded, voice choking her. His gaze was steady on her, open like it had been that day she’d gone out to see clients with him. When he told her she deserved to be happy. Sherlock looked at her thoughtfully, like he was carefully weighing his words for once. Usually it was a snide retort or a snappish change in conversation.

“When I realized what Eurus made me do, what I’d done without considering the alternatives…I just…” His hand came up to brush her cheek and he shook his head. “I lost control. I presumed that beating my fists raw was a fraction of the pain I’d inflicted on you…” he shrugged.

“So you thought you deserved it.” It was Molly’s turn to shake her head. Yes, she was angry. Yet again, Molly Hooper was caught up in Holmes and Holmes (and Holmes) drama and had taken a good emotional bruising for it. But she was also angry that his own rotten sister would use his friends against him like that. She was also angry that Mycroft had gone out of his way to keep Sherlock in the dark. She was also angry at herself for not being able to tell when she should trust him; her demand on that phone call had been just as damaging as his. “In one day, you find out you have a sister, who is alive and a homicidal maniac who wants nothing but to psychologically torture you and the people you love, by making you make terrible decisions, and you think because you were _feeling_ too much that you were entirely to blame?”

He grew perturbed the longer and more confidently she spoke, looking downright indignant at how ridiculous she was making him sound.

“I still didn’t have the right—”

She dropped her hand to his chest, effectively stopping his words. “No, you didn’t. But at the time you didn’t think you had much of choice, did you? Even if you’d somehow deduced that Eurus might have been bluffing, would you really have risked it?” Her words were getting sharper by the second. “Would you really have risked _me_ on a superficial deduction of a sister you’d blocked from your memory?”

“Never.” His answer was firm and quick, and it still felt remarkably good to hear him say it. There had been a time when he would have quibbled over semantics, argued logic, argued his superior intellect. But he wasn’t arguing with her now.

“What happens to her now?” she asked gently, not backing down from his stare. Very few people could tolerate that calculating gaze. Molly knew damn well he used it to intimidate people; not all of his deductions were founded on what he could see. Sometimes he had to stop looking to start seeing. But Molly hadn’t been intimidated by Sherlock Holmes in a long time, so there was no way she was backing down now.

“A high security prison cell for the rest of her life.”

“Will you visit her, do you think?”

He only nodded. That was enough for Molly. She’d arrange things through Mycroft, but she had every intention of meeting her would-be killer. Her thumb dragged over the rough of his shirt.

“You should sleep.”

“I tried. On the plane.”

“Adrenaline?”  

He let his eyes drift shut, a long slow sigh escaping him, like the draft of ventilation through an old room that hadn’t been visited in a long, long time. “You’re not where you’re supposed to be anymore.” She could see the way his eyes roved under their lids, panicked. She’d seen him disappear into his mind palace before. Well, that’s what John called it anyway. Molly knew that it was an ancient Greek method of storing memories, primarily for the educated to pass their knowledge onto others. Not necessary once you have a book. Regardless, Sherlock used it, and he seemed to believe that it had finite limits. He was always deleting something in favor of something else. But was that strictly true? Or was it a habit formed from childhood trauma left to fester? Molly had her suspicions.

“Not where I left you,” Sherlock continued. “She moved you. Put you somewhere dark.”

“Where did Eurus put me, Sherlock?” She moved, positioning herself so that she was straddling him. A bold move, to be sure, but she needed him to know she was with him. He didn’t react to it, not even when she dropped her forehead down to his, hands on his temples.

“Third floor, sixth room. East wing. Don’t go there. Deleted that room.”

“What’s in it, Sherlock?”

“The well. She put you in the coffin in the well. It’s dark down there, wet. You shouldn’t _be there_.”  

Molly sighed, feeling her heart crushing under the weight of his pain. She took a couple of deep breaths, focusing on the feel of their foreheads together, on his pulse under her fingertips, the ebb and flow of his breath.

“Okay, darling, I need you to go in.” He shook his head sharply, nearly dislodging her from her position.

“Don’t want to.”

She brought his hands to her neck, placed her hands on his neck, thumbs on his pulse points , “You wouldn’t leave me there, would you?” He whined. “Don’t leave me where Eurus put me, Sherlock. You know that’s not what you want.” Sherlock nodded, clenching his fingers where they rested. “Go in, Sherlock.” He nodded again. “There’s no well.” He protested mildly with a jerk of his head. “That isn’t where she left me, Sherlock. She left Victor in that well. It’s somewhere else, we’ll find it later, all right?” He sighed. “It’s just you and the coffin. Go get me out, Sherlock. Let me out.”

“Don’t want to look.”

“I’m right here with you, darling, but don’t leave me in there.”

He rumbled beneath her, “Mkay.”

“Have you got me then?” He nodded. “So where do I go? Where am I supposed to be?”

“Downstairs. The morgue.”

Molly could only barely resist a giggle, but she couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her lips. She pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead, and then murmuring against his skin, said, “So put me back there.”

“I like it here.”

At that, she rolled off of him, still maintaining contact. Sherlock didn’t relinquish his hold either, arms curling around her neck and sides. They lay face to face, right up against each other.

“Do I like it there?”

His expression contorted into an approximation of an eyeroll, making her smile.

“ _Obviously_.”

“Do you come to see me sometimes?”

“Constantly.” She let out a sigh when his grip tightened on her side.

“Then that’s where I’ll stay. No one can make me go anywhere without my say, Sherlock, and I want to stay in the morgue. Right where you left me.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, pulling her leg over his so she rested more snugly against him, “better place.”

“Sleep, Sherlock.”


	2. Of How Much to Give

For the first time in many years, Sherlock Holmes woke from a dreamless sleep. He woke in an unfamiliar bed with an unfamiliar weight and warmth alongside him. The sun was going down, and he was having a hard time placing himself within space and time. Then he smelled it, that familiar scent of vanilla shampoo and a slight whiff of formaldehyde. 

_Molly._

Beside him, she stirred, snuffling into his shirt. Her hand still gripped his wrist, her thumb slack over his radial artery. She must have been checking his pulse while he slept. He found himself both surprised, relieved, and surprised that he was relieved that she hadn’t left. A homicidal sister was enough to scare off the best of people, but a psychopathic homicidal sister with extraordinary intelligence and a proclivity for mind games, well, perhaps Molly _did_ have a type. Only when her eyes fluttered open did he realize he was staring at her face. Not cataloguing, he’d done that plenty enough, just…looking. She didn’t even flinch.

“All right, then?” she muttered sleepily, adjusting her position, stretching her feet and toes.

“Perfect.”

She stilled at that, doing some looking of her own. Molly, perhaps, was as meticulous in her observations as he was. The truth was that she was much more proficient at reading people. Much like John, but in her own Molly-like way. _Emotional context._ For so long, John’s function had been to steer Sherlock in the human direction, to account for what Sherlock missed. For the work, it had proved itself invaluable. But John didn’t have answers for this, he thought, brushing Molly’s hair back from her face, he had suppositions, theories, but no definite conclusions. It took her but minutes to begin to undo the damage Eurus had done. Setting him to rights, steering him back on course. Not for gain, not for purpose, not because someone was about to die, just…for himself. To help him sleep.

“Molly…” he dipped closer, pressing their noses together. “Let me…” He trailed off as their lips met in a whisper of a brush. It wasn’t _magical_ , there weren’t _fireworks_ , but it was good and comfortable and he wanted more of it. He wasn’t practiced at this, not when it wasn’t for a case, but he was a quick study, and was soon dragging small gasps and moans out of her. From him, too, evidently, and it encouraged her to pull him more fully on top of her. He tried not to rest too fully on her, but he couldn’t stop kissing her, long drags of tugging lips and ardent presses. He quickly realized that kissing was a skill you could experiment with, as with anything else, and stopped merely mimicking her patterns. He took it steps further, twisting his tongue into her mouth to taste her, drink her down.

Without preamble, she was unbuttoning her shirt, then his, and with the slightest of pressure, he leaned back on his knees, pulling her with him. While she divested them of clothing, Sherlock pressed kisses along her jaw line, ear, and neck, testing to see which places they liked best. Above the clavicle it was, at the base of her skull just behind her ear. Before he could find a third, she was dragging his mouth back to hers, ravaging it for the moment he was distracted. Removing their trousers took some doing, and some convincing on Molly’s part. Sherlock had no desire to relinquish an inch of his hold on her, didn’t care to be distracted from her mouth.

But he had to admit, warm, bare skin on skin contact was uniquely satisfying, especially since Molly was so sensitive and responsive. He could spend days, weeks, months testing and cataloguing her likes, dislikes, the sounds she made, the expressions on her face, the way her muscles clenched and stretched.

They made love slow and even, moving gently against each other. He kept his eyes fixed on her, doing his best to give her what she needed, wrapping his apology up in her pleasure, taking comfort every time she pressed against him and moaned his name. She drew out his pain, leaving a vacuum for the brightness of his humanity to rush back in. Molly Hooper was giving back to him all the love and feeling and heart he’d had her hold onto for so long. It was heavy and it hurt him as much as it pleased him. But it was a good hurt. Like being slapped in the face after crashing down from a high. Then they hit their stride, and the surge of hormones and need drove out every thought. Drowned out the compulsive need to categorize and store better than the work, better than the cocaine, better than the drug induced sex of his past, certainly. She went off first, with a mere brush of his fingers over her center, and he came quickly after.

Deftly, he rolled them so they once again laid side by side, sweating and sticking to each other, breathing heavily. His mind was blissfully clear, clear but not numb.

Oh, he could so _easily_ get addicted to this.

“Say it again,” she whispered into his chest, tracing designs along this pectoral. “Like you mean it.”

He huffed, “No one’s in mortal danger now.” Her only response was to pinch him, making him smirk. “I love you, Molly, always have.” He felt her sigh against his skin. “Maybe not in the way you deserved, but I am…trying.”

“I know.”

“I apologize for taking so long to piece it together.”

She hummed, hips moving against his side, “Can’t be brilliant at everything, now can you?”

He scoffed, “I beg to differ.” She smothered her laughter in his neck. “You mock, but I have a steep learning curve. Already I’ve professed my feelings for you three times, gotten you to forgive me, and given you not one, but two, orgasms. Imagine what I’ll accomplish tomorrow.”

She snorted, “Two?”

“Don’t _lie_ , Molly, it doesn’t suit you.” Her whole body quaked from laughter against him, and he found he quite liked that too. Not as well as hearing her laughter, quirky as it was, but lovely all the same. Every tid bit of information automatically filed into the much larger room Molly was now situated in. He certainly couldn’t keep her in the morgue in the basement. The new room was much more spacious, sunnier, more like Molly. Not that he was going to be telling her that any time soon.

“I imagine you have quite a lot to do…” she mused quietly. He hummed his assent, picking up her hand and playing with it. “Won’t Mycroft come looking for you soon?”

“He’ll text.”

“And John?”

“I’ll text.”

“And if the whole England starts burning down?”

“They can piss off.”

He got full on laughter for that one, and felt mighty pleased with himself. Right up until she slung herself over his lap, straddling him. All the smug and superior sapped right out of him when she looked at him like that. In the past, it had a remarkably negative effect on him, to the point that he lashed out with pointed and cruel deductions. _What an idiot._ He let his hands skim up her sides, massaging her breasts before sliding down to the tips of her knees, pausing only a moment to squeeze them. His hands still ached terribly, but the bandages must have produced an _interesting_ sensation for her skin to pimple that way. She looked suddenly shy, and he could see every comment he’d ever made flash through her mind. He sat up sharply, cradling her body in his lap, making her gasp at the proximity. He loved the way their bodies curled together.

“Talk to me, love.”

She dropped her forehead to his, a familiar position for them now. “Bit surreal, isn’t it?” He kissed her cheek in question, tasting her skin and perspiration. So many more things to learn and catalogue. “The two of us in bed together. After all this time. After everything…I never could have predicted this.”

“I could.” She pulled back abruptly, a bemused smile on her face. He kissed it until it became a real one. “This was my third thought after meeting you.”

She wriggled against him, “Oh really? And what were the first two?”

He kissed her again, “That you were wearing a jumper your father bought you.” And again. “And that you were far from being an idiot.” She chuckled, kissing him back as she twined her arms around his neck.

“How flattering,” she murmured against his lips, nipping sharply at the bottom one. With a growl, Sherlock launched them from their seated position, tucking her underneath him, pushing down against her center with his hips. Her moans and sighs were better than any sonata he could have composed.

“ _Very_ ,” he growled out as his hand slipped down between her folds. His thumb pressed on her clit, making her dig her nails into his shoulders. _Perfect_. “Until the day I met you, people were nothing but insects. Until you, I was surrounded by idiots. Until you, I’d never wanted to fuck a woman over a desk in the middle of the day.” Not sober, anyway. He slipped in two more fingers, carefully avoiding his bandages, increased pressure on her clit in a circular motion, and stroked the spongy, ribbed flesh like the strings of his violin. Her entire body thrashed under him, and she jerked up to kiss him, clenching around his fingers. _Damn it_ , she was strong.

He worked her up just until she was about to come and then pulled back. Molly nearly shrieked in her outrage.

“Back! Come back,” she whined prettily. And didn’t that just put a filthy picture in his head? He filed it away for later. Sherlock laughed, kissing her into complacency, and then replaced his hand with his cock, bottoming out on the first thrust.

“ _Fuck_ , you feel so good,” he growled out, pulling all the way out and then back in. She cried out, her legs straining against the mattress. “I knew you would. Fuck, I’ve always known it.” He tried to grit back the words as he pumped in and out of her, but Molly keened.

“Don’t hold back, oh _shit_ , my god, _Sherlock_!”

He hummed, grinding against her, making her throw her head back, “Love that filthy mouth of yours. Keep talking,” he ordered, that domineering, haughty tone back in his voice. She wrapped her legs around his hips, lifting for more pressure against her clit, but off went her mouth. She rambled out every dirty thought in her head, a litany of curses and intermittent praise. The longer she talked, the harder he fucked her. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t control it. He lost all finesse when she bit down on his shoulder and writhed underneath him, letting out a high-pitched whine as she came. So he relaxed and lost himself in her, burying himself over and over again, groaning and shaking from the force of it.

“That’s it, darling, let go.”

“I love you, so bloody much, Molly. Love you.” She reached up to kiss him, hands dragging up along his spine until her fingers entrenched in his hair, tugging _perfectly_.

“I love you, too. Come for me, Sherlock, come for me.”

As the queen commands, he thought smugly, right before he came harder than he ever had in his life.

When he got his sense back, he rolled off of her, the two of them separating fully for the first time since lying down. She kept hold of his hand, though, just to maintain contact.

“All right,” Molly panted out, “I admit it. You _do_ have a steep learning curve.”

“You’ve _no_ idea.”

She let out a sparkling little laugh and threaded their fingers. “We need to eat.”

“ _You_ need to eat.”

She clicked her tongue at him, “Case is over, that means you’re eating too.”

“Fine,” he dislodged his hand from hers and rolled off the bed, “I’ll go make us something.”

Molly put an arm under her head, pushing her breasts out and accentuating the long lines of her. He quickly calculated her measurements, which designs and styles would best work with her shapes. However, he ultimately decided that he very much preferred a naked Molly to a clothed one.

“You can’t cook,” she scoffed in disbelief. Sherlock felt a slight twinge in his chest at the bright amusement on her face. Such a stark contrast to her expression when they were on the phone. Vindictive satisfaction settled into his gut, knowing that as quickly as he could hurt her, he could heal her, mend the broken pieces. Just by…being. With a smirk, he grabbed his pants and pulled them on. He straightened and let his hands rest on his hips.

“According to _whom_?”

She shrugged indignantly, “Statistics? The perpetual disaster in your kitchen? The never-ending takeaway?” 

Sherlock leaned over the bed, hands on the mattress, his grin lop-sided and probably looking stupid, “Once again Dr. Hooper, you see but you do not observe.” Molly sat up, rolling to her knees, as she crawled toward him. When she reached him, she was smiling brilliantly, but didn’t touch him. They were nose to nose, staring each other down.

“And what is it that I do not observe, Mr. Holmes?” He placed a teasingly light kiss to her lips, but still didn’t touch her.

“I am not incompetent.” He raised his brows. “I’m _lazy_.”


	3. And How Much to Take

They had the whole of the night together, and it turned out Sherlock was a superb cook, which Molly would never let him live down. However, she was also sworn to secrecy in exchange for perfect eggs benedict and parmesan shrimp risotto. Mycroft, of course, had kept the apartment wonderfully stocked with food and supplies, so they weren’t in want of anything. They spent so much time talking, mostly about Molly and her work, but she forced some stories out of him. He told her he’d taught himself to cook when his parents took away his chemistry set after the sixth fire. He talked about times before primary school, when Mycroft had him convinced he was mentally deficient. He talked a little bit about secondary school, when he’d started using. She told him similar stories, ones that complemented his own. Similar protagonists, she found, but very different paths.

But soon enough, the sun was coming up again, and Sherlock’s phone pinged with texts from John and Mycroft. He was needed almost everywhere in London, it seemed. Mrs. Hudson needed his help at Baker Street. Lestrade needed him at a crime scene. Mycroft needed him in undisclosed locations which Sherlock indicated were unpleasant. John merely wanted him to check in, probably make sure he wasn’t using.

“Probably,” Molly said regretfully. But it was true. The world had given Sherlock Holmes twenty-four hours to collect himself, but it had no intention of leaving him be any time soon. And not a single one of them had forgotten his habit.

Regardless, Sherlock seemed a little desperate to ignore the onslaught of texts. He seemed extremely reluctant to leave her.

“You’re with me today.”

To anyone else, it might have sounded like a demand. But Molly saw the doubt on his face, felt the shake of his hands as they reached for her. He was scared, and for the first time it had nothing to do with mortal danger, just the everyday hurdles of human life.

“Let me call work.”

*

John was their first stop. He had been in the process of moving back into Baker Street before the explosion, so his flat was somewhat in disarray as well. Rosie was as vivacious as ever, babbling in her baby talk to Molly a mile a minute. As she and Sherlock had showed up unannounced, and they’d not seen each other since Sherrinford, Molly took Rosie off into the sitting room to play, leaving them to talk. Which they did, and rather quietly given their dynamic. But then, John always was quite soft with Sherlock after these kinds of things.

When they finally came looking for Molly and Rosie, the two girls were well into a game of building towers and knocking them down with cars. John joined in the game, but Sherlock watched on, slightly amused. Despite their attention on Rosie, John kept looking back and forth between Molly and Sherlock. That is, until Sherlock got bored of the game.

“Oh, just _ask_!” he snapped out, dropping his head back in annoyance. Molly giggled at the vehemence in his tone, not at all surprised he cracked so easily. At the sound of her laugh, Sherlock shot a glare at her, making her laugh harder.

“Take a look, baby girl, that is your Uncle Sherlock’s sulky face. Puts on a good pout when he’s being teased.” She leaned towards the girl, stage whispering, “Happens quite a lot.” His epic eyeroll in response was well worth it. John seemed to be enjoying himself, though, and was content to stare down Sherlock with smirk on his face.

“Soo,” John said slowly, “You’ve talked, then, have you?”

“ _Obviously_.”

“Behave, Sherlock.” She got a glare for that one too until she threw a foam block at his head, only for him to flop dramatically onto the couch. He closed his eyes and steepled his hands, indicating that he was checking out momentarily. “ _Big baby_ ,” she muttered. If he was as far deep in his mind as she presumed he would be, she and John would be able to talk quietly without attracting his attention. They’d done so loads of times before, so it stood to reason. However, she was auspiciously aware that he occasionally pretended to be ignoring them precisely for eavesdropping purposes. He’d let slip crucial information to that effect dozens of times since he’d come back from the dead.  She lifted her brows at John, indicating they were in the clear.

“He told you everything, then?”

“Enough for now,” she answered, handing Rosie blocks as she built them up. “More than he probably would have liked.”

“It was horrible.  There were about 30 seconds there where I thought we were going to watch you…you know…”

Molly froze, her mouth tightening. “Sorry, _watch_?” John’s eyes widened just a fraction, but the dismay was very obvious. He’d never been good at concealing his feelings from anyone. Sherlock liked that about him.

“Clearly, he didn’t…I mean, that’s why we were so…” he shot a glance over at Sherlock who remained unperturbed. “Eurus wired your flat with cameras. During the…when he called you, you were in the kitchen.”

Molly felt ready to vomit. But John just shook his head.

“I’ve never seen him like that Molly, and I’ve seen _a lot_. The look on his face…watching you, not sure if…That was the first time I had ever seen Mycroft truly afraid.” John deflated, the stress of it all obvious in the lines on his face.

“He didn’t mention that part to me, only that he was convinced she’d set up explosives.”

John nodded, a grim smile on his face. It wasn’t his usual happy smile, it was the smile that bespoke anger and frustration. He tweaked Rosie’s nose, making the baby girl cackle and bat her hands at him.

“Well,” he said, holding his hands out as Rosie clambered over to him, “I’m happy he’s told you what happened at all. Can’t imagine what you must’ve thought.”

She laughed softly through her nose, “Something along the lines of a drunken bet with Mycroft about goldfish.” John’s happy smile bloomed across his face.

“They are stupid prats, aren’t they?”

She waggled her brows at him, “Indeed.” They both laughed at that, and the warmth for him made her incredibly sad. It made her miss Mary, it made her miss the John he was when she was alive. But she had this John now, and they all had Rosie. Gorgeous little Rosie who looked so much like her mum. She tickled the baby’s toes.

“So you and he are…?” Molly let John’s trailing off stretch for a few moments longer. She wasn’t sure how Sherlock felt about other people knowing about the change in their relationship. Though, she supposed the fact that he’d asked her along for the day was some indication of his feelings. If they were going to see Mycroft, then there would be no hiding it. As she mulled over what her answer would be, it became obvious, and a small smirk formed. She sat up, adjusting her face the best she knew how and looked him square in the eye.

“Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, Dr. Watson.” They were both staring at each other, wide eyed, trying very hard not to laugh and alert Sherlock. They needn’t have bothered.

“Oh, _do_ shut up!” he whined mulishly from the couch.

They both collapsed in fits of laughter.

*

Sherlock finally managed to extract Molly from the Watson’s, claiming that Lestrade desperately needed his eyes on a case. John didn’t seem at all put off by the suggestion that he stay home with Rosie, allowing Molly to take his place. Besides, it would have only upset him to learn that the case was a mere 3. Took quite a lot to obtain childcare, and Sherlock was decidedly not a fan of those lectures. He also just really enjoyed having Molly this close without so many eyes on him. Especially John’s eyes. The sod knew too much.

They discussed Rosie and her future all the way to Scotland Yard. In the back of the cab, Molly pressed up, warm and vital, against him. She had a lot of plans for Rosie’s education, enrichment, hobbies. She knew a good deal about Mary’s interests, her hopes for her daughter’s future. Sherlock had his own ideas about that, of course. Rosie would need extensive schooling in anatomy, basic physiology, chemistry, geology, and the like. He had some ideas on how to get her to memorize the streets and alleyways of London, all of which (thirteen, to be exact), John would hate. He also thought it might be helpful for her to learn subjects that he had deleted, if only to supplement his own knowledge base. Molly let out a lingering laugh when he verbalized that last bit.

“ _Sherlock_! What if Rosie doesn’t want to solve crime for a living?”

His response was a loud scoff and to dismiss the question unhesitatingly. Rosie was a combination of John and _Mary_. The thrill of the chase was in her blood, and she was obviously a child of above average intelligence. Her natural inclination would be to solve mysteries.

They arrived at Scotland Yard and ducked into a service entrance to avoid the journalists outside. Several big cases were up on the jurisdictional docket, and Scotland Yard was under fire as usual. Despite Lestrade’s (read: Anderson’s) assurances that the case was complex and would take time to detangle, it was actually a 2, and Sherlock solved it after the first page. A horrible accident and two loving people trying to cover up for one another when neither was actually guilty made for a messy crime scene. But actually, they didn’t even need Sherlock’s brilliance for a quick solve. Molly took one look at the crime scene photo and muttered, “Gardening accident.”

Sherlock had quickly reached the same conclusion and had to physically stifle the “ _Dear god, I love you_ ,” which threatened to erupt in the middle of Lestrade’s office. But Molly could read his face well enough to know exactly what he meant. It was only when Lestrade snapped at him to get his attention that Sherlock rapidly gave his deductions which conveyed only a minute amount of his irritation. He then snapped at Sally for imbibing too much on a work night and advised Anderson to cancel all of his dates for the foreseeable future. Dramatically, he spun on his heel and made a quick exit, Molly right behind him.

“Why does he need to cancel his dates?” she asked when she caught up to him. Sherlock held the door for her.

“Because he might pull this one and god forbid Anderson procreate.”

“Tosser.”

“Indeed.”


	4. I'll Use You as a Focal Point

The next and final stop was Mycroft’s. For that, he sent a car to Scotland Yard. How he knew where she and Sherlock were was as puzzling as it was terrifying. Sherlock didn’t seem put off, however, so she kept quiet about it. Once in the car, with darkly tinted windows and a divider between them and the driver, Sherlock visibly deflated. Instead of buckling up, he laid down, putting his head in Molly’s lap, and curled an arm around her calf. Molly was beginning to appreciate this handsy version of Sherlock, and having him so close after so long was surprisingly comfortable. Soothing even.

As the car rolled through London, she played with his inky black curls. They were shorter than she liked. John had whispered to her in the morgue that Sherlock had found a gray hair and was keeping it short to prevent any oversights. They’d both laughed at his expense, but Molly thought he’d look rather well with a silver streak or two.

Mycroft’s townhouse was naturally a ridiculous ways away and took all sorts of security passes. Sherlock and Molly weren’t needed though, the drive took care of the particulars. It was a strange life Mycroft led. When she said as much to Sherlock, he snorted.

“Mycroft _is_ strange. Besides, like Cousin Lizzie always says… _Mikey knows entirely too much_!” He mimicked a very familiar affect that had Molly questioning everything she knew about the Holmes family.

“Wait…Lizzie?”

“Ah!” Sherlock said, clapping his hands together and sitting up, “We’ve arrived.”

“Wha—how do you—?” she didn’t get to finish her question before he was throwing the door open and yanking Molly out behind him.

From the outside, Mycroft’s building looked absolutely ordinary. Much like Sherlock’s bolt hole, Molly presumed the inside would be stunning. Sherlock didn’t wait for someone to answer the door, merely walked inside and came to a standstill on the foyer’s rug.

And of course it was.

Marble floors, mahogany trim, gold fixtures. Persian rugs, portraits of royalty, priceless art, unnecessary glass furniture. Yep, Mycroft Holmes was a twat. No further evidence needed. Molly shot a sidelong look at Sherlock, who stood with his arms braced at the small of his back, not touching her once more. He, too, looked irritated by Mycroft’s foppish grandeur. Then again, Sherlock was nearly always put off by Mycroft.

She bit her lip, “Do we want him to know?”

“He knows.”

“Because he’s had you followed?”

Sherlock shrugged as if he hadn’t thought about it, “Probably.”

She was quiet for a long moment, biting on her lip as to not play with her hair and make it obvious. Not that it would matter because—

“Stop fretting. If I didn’t want him to know, he wouldn’t know.”

“I really think—”

Molly’s thoughts were cut off by the clacking of Anthea’s heels and her bored entreaty that they follow her into the library. She was on her phone the whole time, not glancing at them even once. When they reached to the library, Anthea stopped, holding a hand out to the other end of the hall.

“Dr. Hooper may wait in the sitting room until you are finished. We have tea, coffee—”

“ _Molly_ will remain with me. That will be all, Anthea. Give my best to Charlotte. I see she’s in town again.” With that, Mycroft’s enigmatic assistant lifted her eyes to Sherlock with a wry grin on her face. All she did was lift her brows and wink before she clacked off down the hall in an unknown direction.

“Girlfriend. Artist. Lives in Romania. Off and on for about five years. Well, four years and ten months. She uses a particularly pungent paint that when mixed with brass smells bloody awful.”

“I didn’t smell anything.”

“Ah. Persian cat hair. White.”

Molly rolled her eyes, “Are you finished stalling?”

Sherlock tilted his head, “Fancy a snog in the loo?” Her expression, well-practiced, was enough to have him grinning apologetically. In lieu of an apology, he flung the door open, allowing her in first. The library turned out to be even more lavish than foyer. Plush red velvet curtain and stuffed chairs, hundreds of leather-bound books, unopened, lined the dark cherry wood shelves, and her feet actually sunk into the carpet.

“Ah, Miss Hooper—”

“ _Doctor_ ,” both she and Sherlock corrected in unison. Molly blushed and tried very hard not to look at him. Let’s see how long it took the inestimable Mycroft Holmes to deduce their relationship.

“Right, Dr. Hooper. Lovely as it is to see you alive and well, I could have sworn I asked Anthea to direct you to the sitting room?” He has a slight smile on his face, but was very obviously not pleased. It seemed that the events of the last 48 hours had had a dire effect on his mental prowess. Molly had a sweeping sensation of sympathy for him.

“Your brother insisted that she stay,” Anthea said sweetly, entering through another door in the room. Molly stifled a giggle when Sherlock rolled his eyes. But she merely puckered her lips at him mockingly and took a seat behind Mycroft’s desk.

“Must you always tell him everything?”

“Must you always eavesdrop?”

The Holmes brothers spoke in disdainful tandem, but Anthea responded with a mere shrug to both. Molly was really starting to like the woman.

“Right,” Mycroft sneered. “Down to business.” They all took a seat, the brothers arranging the tea as if it were some sort of ritual, preparing Molly’s cuppa with lovely synchronicity. Sherlock handed it to her without much ceremony, as they talked over plans for Eurus, her schedule, what was to happen with the press and the facility. Mostly everything was handled, but Sherlock needed to agree to his part in things, sign some documents pertaining to Eurus’ care and confidentiality agreements. Molly watched them discuss and negotiate, their voices even and calm, talking almost like normal brothers. If normal brothers ever had a homicidal psychopath for a sister who had psychologically tortured them and murdered childhood playmates.

Mycroft sat back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap, “Now about Violet and William…”

“Best not.”

“I’d thought the same.”

“Excellent. Scratch that off the list Anthea.”

Molly held up a hand, not having interrupted until then, “Sorry? Who are Violet and William?”

Both the Holmes boys looked at her with a slight bit of reticence, and maybe a little bit of fear. It made Anthea snicker behind her phone.

“Mummy and daddy,” she laughed cheekily, completely ignoring Mycroft’s glare.

“Remind me to fire you!” he snapped at her.

“As if you could.”

“So for the slow people in the room? You’re _not_ telling your parents any of this?” She rounded on Sherlock who had the decency to look somewhat remorseful, but not near enough. “You can’t be serious!”

“Molly…”

“Dr. Hooper, our parents are aged and fragile, a thing like this could completely upend their small but comfortable lives…”

“You can’t not tell them that their _daughter_ is alive.” She floundered for a second. “Absolutely, stark raving mad, but alive!”

She and Sherlock locked gazes for a long moment, those unyielding eyes of his boring into her as if analyzing every cell and synapse in her brain in real time. But Molly refused to back down on this, refused to let him go off alone. She didn’t know how to convey this in words, but she knew that this was a truly awful idea, and not just because it was incredibly wrong. Something in her gut told her that this decision could ruin him. But then Sherlock leaned his head back, straightening like he did when he was beginning to understand something important.

“She’s right,” he said not taking his eyes off her.

“Oh _come on_ Sherlock!”

“I’m serious, Mycroft,” he slid his eyes over to his brother, leaving Molly feeling just a little bereft. “Might as well call them now. Get it done with.”

Mycroft dropped his head to the back of his chair, “Anthea?”

She left the room smiling, not even pausing when she winked at Molly.

When Mycroft collected himself, he sat up straight, a falsely serene look on his face. Sort of like when Sherlock was playing a character. To anyone who knew him well, it was quite unsettling…

“So, am I to expect this interference from now on? My decisions being vetoed by Dr. Hooper at every turn?” Sherlock looked absolutely bored with question, which didn’t surprise Molly in the least. This was the part where Sherlock resolutely ignored everyone in the room or deduced someone in some horrible way, so Molly beat him to it.

“Not _every_ turn, _Mr._ Holmes.”

Her eyes slid over to Sherlock, who was looking extremely pleased, a smirk behind his steepled hands. Evidently this was the right thing to do, the right thing to say, and she felt good about it. Usually she said the wrong thing, stammered her way through tense conversations, but after dating a psychopath, helping her friend fake his death and then come back from the dead, a broken engagement, and then finally confessing her love for Sherlock had worked wonders on the thickness of her skin. Not much threw her anymore. It helped that she’d heard him beg and then watched him cook breakfast for her. It was sickeningly unfair how delicious he looked in an apron. He cocked his head, arching a brow when he saw the look on her face. _Damn him_.

“Brother mine, Molly requires sustenance that is _not_ cake. I’ll be taking her to the kitchen now.” With that, he got out of his chair, and went to the door, holding it open as he waited for Molly. She got up without excusing herself, seeing that Mycroft wouldn’t appreciate it, and nearly skipped to Sherlock. His overly cheerful demeanor appeared to increasingly annoy Mycroft, so Molly mimicked it and took his hand.

After the door closed, however, Sherlock wasn’t satisfied with holding her hand and wrapped his arm around her waist. She leaned heavily into him, more than loving the fact that he could easily bear her weight. Tom certainly hadn’t been able to, he complained if they walked too closely together. Except in mixed company, whenever Molly strayed too far or tried to give him some space, Sherlock would inevitably pull her back in. It was painfully reassuring to her that whatever this was, was real. It was almost embarrassing, she thought as he pulled out various early lunch options, that she felt the need such a high volume of reassurance, that she was so obviously eager for it. Still, as Sherlock kept talking, a rant about Mycroft and his tastes no doubt, she could clearly see that he needed it too. It was strange, though, seeing him vulnerable and questioning himself. She could only wonder at his thought process, what he could possibly be saying to himself.

He was busying himself with some contraption, but Molly was feeling too much too suddenly. She went to him, took whatever it was out of his hands, and wrapped her arms around his waist, slotting herself up snugly against him. She nuzzled into his chest, letting her cheek rest over his heart beat. Sherlock’s arms went up and faltered for a moment before wrapping around her too.

“Molly?” he asked quietly, obviously concerned. She pulled back just enough to smile up at him, thinking that she probably looked foolish with her heart in her eyes. Truthfully, she was still stunned that he’d taken her opinion into consideration. Rumor had it that he’d been doing it for some time, but it was still kind of wonderful to see it firsthand. And so quickly, too!

“Kiss me?” It was a silly request, considering they were in his brother’s kitchen of all places, and his parents were expected soon. But it was too new, and he was too far away, and everything was just happening really fast. Despite her reservations in asking, he ducked down instantaneously, as if by reflex. His mouth on hers was hot and wanting, and _damn_ how could she miss this after only a few hours? But he seemed to need it as much as he did because he wasn’t satisfied with the short kiss their height difference allowed. Instead, he lifted her up onto the chic quartz counter top, breaking the kiss only to rub their noses together before he locked her face to his with his hands cupping her head. Clever boy, he was a fast learner. She loved his hands on her face, fingers playing with her ears and tendrils of her hair. She nearly whined when his hands stroked down her sides and around her thighs to pull her more tightly against him. Meanwhile, his lips nipped and tugged at hers, encouraging her lead, chest rumbling when she moved against him. By god, he was so sweet with her.

He stopped their kiss, pressing several, soft, loving pecks to her lips before pulling back fully to look at her. His hands went to cup her head again, tilting her up just so their eyes could meet.

“Better?” he asked in a low rumble.

“Much,” she whispered back.

His eyes wandered surreptitiously up towards the ceiling corners, “I must confess that I am absolutely convinced that Mycroft has cameras everywhere in this building.” He looked back down at her, mischief gleaming in his eyes, “So this might resurface at a later date.”

“Ah, the pitfalls of bumming ‘round with the Holmes boys. Constantly caught on tape.”

Sherlock smiled regretfully, and slid his hands down to hers, which she accepted eagerly. She liked being at eye level with him. Liked that the physicality wasn’t as difficult as she thought it would be. He seemed perfectly content to follow her lead. And, well, he was an excellent student.

“Yes, I left that part out. I—uh, was reluctant to add…” but she only shook her head. It wasn’t necessary at this point, the apologies and excuses, the reasoning. “But I specifically told Mycroft to destroy all of it upon discovery. No one watched any of it. Except…”

She shrugged, “Except.” Sherlock seemed to pale a bit at that, looking away from her. So, Molly was forced to press lingering kisses to his jawline and cheek. She watched his eyes flutter shut, his relief a physical vibrato that made her heart clench.

“Hey,” she said quietly, turning her face back to hers. He looked almost panicked, like he done something that big brain of his couldn’t process enough to fix. “Eurus did not win. Do I look broken to you?” His jaw merely clenched, prompting her to kiss his temple and wrap her arms around his neck, drawing him closer. “I assure you, I’m not,” she whispered against his hair. “Having to say that I loved you over the phone was…upsetting, but I think she might have forgotten that I once dated a serial murderer who was in love with you.” She grinned at his loud snort, the way his shoulders shook with laughter under her. She nuzzled in and pressed a kiss to his ear. “Sometimes things have to hurt before they get better.”

He let out a long breath, “So I’ve begun to realize.”

She flicked the side of his head, “You were a child, don’t do that.” She physically _feel_ his scowl. In retaliation, she bit at his ear, just this side of hard.

“ _Temptress_ ,” he hissed out. “What did I just say about the cameras?”

Clearing her throat with great exaggeration, she sat up primly and repeated: “I must confess that I am _absolutely_ convinced that Mycroft has cameras everywhere in this building…”

“I do not sound like that.”

“Says you, I could take this on the road.”

“That would be a strange show.”

“Stranger audience.”

“Quite.”

They stared each other down for a long moment before Sherlock quirked a brow.

“Mycroft will enter the kitchen in about 5.4 seconds. Want to shock him?” Molly didn’t have to ask what he had in mind because they were crashing back together in that instant. A few gloriously long seconds later, Mycroft’s satisfying groan of disgust came from the entryway.

“That _cannot_ be sanitary! Wait until I tell Mummy!”

Sherlock jerked away suddenly, making her scowl. “She’ll be elated at the prospect of grandchildren!”  There was a short pause that forced Molly to turn and take it in. Poor man was vibrating with irritation.

“Damn,” Mycroft muttered. “You’re right.”

Sherlock laughed like mad and kissed Molly’s forehead loudly, “You, love, are my new secret weapon. I’m untouchable.” Molly felt charmed by his silly childish competition with his brother, and because Mycroft was such a posh shit, she had no problem being his secret weapon. She smiled widely at him.

“Oh, _stop_ it, will you? The two of you are making me _ill_. They’re five minutes out, brace yourselves, children.”

With that, Mycroft made a dramatic exit from the kitchen, leaving them alone once again. Molly tensed up, realizing how quickly this was all moving along.

“Ooh, don’t do that.”

She cocked her head, “What’s that now?”

“ _Think_.”

“I beg your pardon, pot meet kettle.” He made that ridiculous face he made when he didn’t understand a reference. _Deleted it_ , she reminded herself snootily. “How dare _you_ tell me not to think.”

He bit back a laugh, “All right. To clarify. You should not think too hard about our relationship at the current moment. Because when you do, you will realize that we moved through quite a few of the standard steps I have read on the subject of romantic relationships.”

“When did you have time to research?”

He waved her off, “You were sleeping. The point is, that just because you are about to meet my parents does not mean that we need to have a _discussion_ quite yet.”

“Discussion?”

Right then Mycroft burst through the doors, perfectly normal-looking Holmes parents trailing behind him, quite bewildered by the spectacle.

“And here we have the love birds! I’ve already promised them, Mummy, they can have the rehearsal dinner here,” Mycroft announced with an insipidly sweet voice, dripping with posh disdain.

“Absolutely not!” Sherlock fired back, shocking even Molly when he pointed accusingly at his brother, “He just wants more access to the _cake_!”

Mycroft puffed up, defensive, as if his offer had been a genuine, “I’ll have you know—!”

“That is _enough_!” Mrs. Holmes snapped with a stamp of her foot. “The next one of you who speaks without permission will take me and your father to a matinee of _Cats_.”

The brothers immediately stood to attention, looking every ounce innocent. This was the best consulting detective and the British government at work? Psssht. Molly hopped off the counter, straightened out her clothes, and immediately went to introduce herself, completely avoiding Sherlock’s attempt to stop.

“You’ll have to forgive their manners, dear,” Violet Holmes said warmly, shaking her hand. “I’m afraid they’re rather like this when they’re in a good strop.”

Molly laughed lightly, “You don’t have to tell me, Mrs. Holmes. I’m Molly, Molly Hooper.”

“Say,” Mr. Holmes said, stepping around his wife. Molly was immediately struck by his bright blue eyes, very similar to Sherlock’s. Mycroft took after his mum. “Aren’t you a doctor? I thought all of Sherly’s friends were doctors or coppers?”

That made Molly inexplicably laugh harder, “Correct the first time. I’m a pathologist.”

Mr. Holmes used her hand to lean in closer and whisper, “Please tell me that he doesn’t nick people parts from you…” He trailed off looking a fraction of a bit hopeful.

“Fraid I can’t, Mr. Holmes.”

“ _Oy vey_ ,” he grumbled.

Molly whipped around to Sherlock, “Wasn’t I promised lunch?” Sherlock visibly relaxed at her impertinent demand.

“I should hope it was a promise of takeaway!” Mycroft announced disdainfully, “Or else you might’ve been gravely poisoned…” The Holmes’ teased Sherlock’s domestic abilities for a few moments while Mycroft shouted at his staff to prepare food. Molly felt about to burst regarding Sherlock’s culinary skills but he mouthed at her _Not a word_ with a very Serious look on his face. So, she bit it back and made polite small talk with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Sherlock watching on, indecipherable as always. He’d once told her she was no good at small talk, no good at jokes, but he didn’t interrupt them even once on their way to the dining room. Which happened to be more like a dining hall, formal, and she felt underdressed just walking in. When she hesitated, Sherlock merely put a hand to the small of her back and directed her to the side with a view of the garden. Thankfully, Mycroft was more of housecat and so the outdoor décor was much more subdued. She shot a grateful look in Sherlock’s direction, and he responded by gliding his hand up her spine.

“Shall we set some ground rules about the _P-D-A_ , little brother?” Mycroft asked lightly, that hint of insipid sweetness making its second round. Molly stopped Sherlock from reaching for his fork.

“Careful Mycroft, you can boss baby brother all you like, but you know I never listen,” she said sedately, placing a napkin in her lap. She glared at him pointedly, “And I gather that I would be much more…imaginative in ways of making you uncomfortable.”

Mycroft visibly blanched, making his parents laugh riotously.

“Oh, Sherlock! I like her!”

“Yes, yes, do keep her!”

They kept on teasing Mycroft, much to his complaint, but Molly was much more taken with Sherlock’s small smile as Mycroft’s wait staff came to serve them. He was looking mightily pleased with himself, and even acknowledged the staff. That didn’t stop him from chastising his parents for being “ridiculous” and “boring,” but he was somewhat subdued. Then dessert was served and Mycroft was tired of waiting.

He poured out the whole sordid affair from start to finish, including his role in it, including the pain inflicted upon Sherlock’s friends. The Holmes’s were shocked of course, hurt, and bewildered. There was a lot of shouting and explaining. Surprisingly, Sherlock was relatively quiet throughout, providing only a fact or two when required. He did, however, grab up Molly’s hand and pull it into his lap, giving off clear signals of distress when his father shouted, his mother sobbed, or when Mycroft looked ashamed. Right then, she understood why he’d wanted her here with him. It was unbearable to watch all of this pain alone. She squeezed his hand right back.

“And what about you, Sherlock? What do you have to say about all of this? About your sister?” his mother demanded, teary eyed and distraught. Instead of answering immediately, he looked over at Molly. All she could do was smile; it was his family, he would know what to say. He nodded and looked back at his parents.

“I don’t like it, but it is what it is. I’m much more interested in the future now.” He squeezed her hand again. “We need to decide on a visitation schedule.”

*

The Holmes family continued their discussion (read: arguments) well into the evening. Long enough that Mycroft had to have his staff prepare tea. Molly found that amidst the boys’ nonsense, and the normalcy of their parents, she quite liked being around this particular family. Certainly no one would call her strange, for she was far from the strangest thing in the room. Nor was she the most “normal.” Although, Mycroft had a nasty habit of referring to her as “Sherlock’s goldfish.” This earned him biscuits to the head. Sherlock instructed her on how to get more precise aim, much to his mother’s chagrin.

“Boys, behave,” his father grumbled lazily.

“He started it!” the chanted in unison, pointing at each other.

“You both did,” Molly corrected. Somehow, both of them mustered up enough bullshit to look betrayed. Molly only shrugged at Sherlock.

“Your mum’s promised me pudding. Counter offer?” she teased. He quirked a brow that could have only meant one thing. She turned back to the Holmes’s.

“Sherlock’s right, Mycroft started it.”

“Not fair! That’s collusion!”

“I beg to differ.”

“Begging won’t help your case.”

“Not the way I do it,” Sherlock muttered into his glass.

“ _Sherlock!_ ”  

He threw his hands up, surrounded and defeated.

“John would have appreciated that one.”

Molly patted his hand, “John isn’t here, love, just your mother.” She smiled widely. “And me.”

Sherlock looked at her appraisingly, and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks, the pressure of his family’s full attention.

“Girlfriend?” he asked, obvious distaste on his tongue.

“Not you,” she answered.

He squinted, “P-artner?”

“John,” the conceded at the same time.

Molly patted his hand again, “We’ll work on it.”

“Oo-r,” Mrs. Holmes said with a false calm, “you could marry and we’ll call you his wife.”

“Oh, mummy.”


	5. So I Don't Lose Sight of What I Want

Mycroft graciously supplied them with another car for the ride home. Molly promised to meet his parents for tea, and Mycroft promised to attend at least once, so they were free of obligations for the rest of the night. They decided to go back to her place, take showers, clean up. Sherlock had difficulty making himself go in at first. Eurus had defiled his safest place, his bolt hole, had threatened the secret dearest to him. It took him a moment to adjust himself. Molly came back to the doorway, hand out to him.

“No surprises here,” she said, echoing his words from the night before.

“Except the cameras and would-be explosives,” he snarked back indolently.

“Mycroft said he cleared my flat.”

“Sure, if you trust _Mycroft_.” She jutted out her hip, frowning. Okay with _that_ look already. “Oh _fine_! I trust him…sometimes…on occasion. Wednesdays, mostly.”

“Sherlock.”

He frowned, hands on hips, looking down at the floor.

“You were in the kitchen.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Thirty seconds.” He swallowed hard. “There were thirty seconds where I thought I’d lost you.”

She stepped forward, taking his hands in hers, “Tough, isn’t it?”

Of course, he always missed something. Hadn’t thought of that, of how many times she’d watched him almost die. As a matter of fact, she’d gone to his funeral. With him, but still. He’d never resented that slap, but he understood it a little better now. Understood the need to lash out at the thing hurting what you love. Coincidentally, he always seemed to be the one doing the hurting. He huffed out a laugh.

“I really am a bastard, aren’t I?”

She nodded, “Oh yeah, completely. But you’re my bastard.”

He raised his brows, “That is Christmas card worthy.”

“You don’t send Christmas cards,” she said with a shake of her head, pulling him into the flat. He went along, only giving the slightest resistance to make her work.

“I could, too, send Christmas cards!” he protested half-heartedly, but hoped she could tell from the amusement on his face that he didn’t really care. He hoped Molly would point out a great many of these things that he “didn’t do.” The arguments were quite enjoyable. Not to mention, she was rapidly becoming his favorite teacher, jumpers and all.

They took off their shoes and coats, and began disrobing once they entered the bedroom. Molly always kept clothes for him, just in case. This was an old pattern. She would go into the bathroom to dress, he stayed in the bedroom. In most cases, he’d sit and talk with her until she fell asleep, or he’d retreat to the sofa or pull the cot from under the bed. She still retreated to the closet, but he imagined she would overcome that abominable shyness in approximately 3 days. People tired of inefficient exercises once inconvenient. He sat on the bed in his pants, waiting for her. He didn’t usually sleep with clothes on at all, so it was extra effort for her. He wasn’t entirely sure how her mood would be this time. The day previous had be…unexpected. Pleasurably unexpected, for both of them. But this was more…it was simply more. He was unschooled in this area of romantic relationships. With Janine, everything had been false, faked. He’d liked her because she was so preoccupied with herself that she never noticed his gaps.

 _All_ Molly noticed were his gaps, and here he was anyway. He got so distracted by his own thoughts that he didn’t notice Molly’s exit from the bathroom. He dragged a hand over his brow, blurring his vision. When he lifted his head and the fog cleared, there she was. A bright vision in a drab, old t-shirt, she’d scrubbed her face so it was fresh and pinked. She looked wonderfully awake despite the day she’d had. He just stared, he stared and stared, taking in every detail he could find. Quite a lot, but never enough. He could hear her through the dense fog of his processing, could see her approaching, and he watched that approach intensely. He watched the way she moved through space, her gait, the movement of her head, neck, and shoulders. He could smell her facial cream, the fresh smell of her shirt. It didn’t stop when she approached the bed, cupped his face in her hands to make her look at him. He measured her fingers, her palm size, the feel of her skin on his. He counted the flecks in her eyes, catalogued the color. Not just the brown, but the corresponding RGB codes he’d had the misfortune to need for a case. There were eight of them. Her voice started breaking through.

“Sherlock? Are you feeling all right?” Once processed, he immediately brought his hands up to cover hers, cradling them. He held them there, nuzzling into her skin, taking in everything he could.

“I was thinking about rapists.” Her eyebrows shot straight up, making him chuckle.

“Okay. Do tell.”

“Well not all of them, not the boring ones. The ones who pay attention, become obsessed with the object of their attention, no detail unnoticed.” By then, Molly was squinting at him skeptically. It wasn’t her _stop talking_ face, but it was close to John’s _not good_ face. Eh, whatever. “Even if they reduce a human to object, at least they appreciate that object to its fullest potential.”

“Okay?” she repeated, confused and not a little alarmed. Right, the finish.

“I don’t understand them,” he watched her shoulders slump in relief. “Why take so much time, invest so much of yourself into something, only to try and destroy what drew you in the first place? Why break down what’s so beautiful about the human psyche? It’s nonsensical.”

Molly breathed out heavily shaking her head, “Sherlock Holmes you have a rather curious way of looking at the world.”

He grimaced. “Not good?”

His doubts were reduced to ash when she bent to kiss his forehead. “Fine, really. Just, try to remember to put your conclusions in the beginning, yeah?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“But that ruins the suspense!”

“Dramatic.”

“Very,” he murmured against her lips, hand seeking to keep her with him. Though he needn’t have strained himself. She nudged him further back on the bed, easing him down so that she could sprawl out on top of him, kissing him lazily, perfectly. She moved wonderfully on him, alternating pressing her hips down and pressing her lips against his. He could hardly catch his breath, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. But then she sat up, pulled off her shirt to reveal all bare skin.

“God, you’re perfect.” He worked quickly to get his pants off, and helped guide her down on top of him. He hissed out every curse he could think of in that moment, thrusting up into her as she swiveled herself down. They came together perfectly, having the benefit of practice, and Sherlock felt no need to reserve himself with her. He let go completely, let her take the control. She used his hands to steady herself, and he held her there, waiting for her call. Sherlock decided he could get addicted to watching her like this, fighting only for herself, her own pleasure, untamed and unloosed from her typical reserve. She’d always been like this, she’d always been _more_. He wanted to explain it to her, show her, but he didn’t have the words yet. Not quite.

Then again, he thought with a smirk as she tossed her head back, crying out her release, he had a _very_ steep learning curve.


	6. I'll Use You as a Warning Sign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate explanations/descriptions of music.   
> Do forgive my horrid ignorance on the subject.

Sherlock was very grabby the next morning, trying to coax her back into bed, to stay with him. But she had the early shift and a holiday schedule she very much wanted to keep. She did give him a thorough snog before leaving, reminding him where the tea was so he didn’t tear her kitchen apart.

“I’m not a child, Molly,” he pouted, watching her slide on a jumper.

“Oooh, don’t get me started,” she shot back.

“What does that mean?”

“The laundry?”

“Accident.”

“The cupboards?”

He bobbled his head, “Experiment.”

“My _TV_?”

“That was a regrettable mistake.”

She grabbed her coat and bag, smile on her face. “ _Behave_.” He smirked broadly at her, but promised he would anyway. And then she was out the door, taking the tube to St. Bart’s with the rest of the early morning commuters. It was odd, being among other people. Especially people that weren’t Sherlock. It was like…being underwater, eyes glazed, hearing muffled. If felt comfortable and safe, but yet, lonely.

Work was the same as it always was, confirming what she could clearly see, and documenting it for the bereaved. She always left a note for the families, a note containing her findings in plain language. Understanding didn’t always help, didn’t always ease the pain, but it did make it easier for them to talk about it. When you could conceptualize, you could rationalize. Once rationalized, a thing could be put behind you. At least, that’s what Molly liked to believe. She had to believe it. Especially now.

So, she made the call.

Around lunch time, a black sedan picked her up in front of St. Bart’s. She was surprised to see Mycroft and Anthea waiting inside, both staring at their phones.

“You didn’t think I’d let you go alone, now, did you?”

With a grin, Molly slid in beside him, “Of course not.” She buckled herself in. “How long, then?”

“Two hours there, two hours back. Giving you a full hour, should you need it. We’ll have you back in plenty of time to prevent my brother’s knowledge of your whereabouts.”

“I don’t mind if he knows.”

“Let’s see to it that he doesn’t.”

Molly sneered at him a little, “Haven’t you kept enough from him?”

Even Anthea looked up from her phone at that. Mycroft got a little red around the ears, upset that she got one over on him probably.

“He _really_ wouldn’t like this.”

She shrugged, “Sherlock doesn’t have to like everything that I do, Mycroft. I can make my own decisions.”

“Choosing to do this…”

“I’m not _asking_ , Mycroft. I have the right.”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured, looking out the window, “Yes, you do.”

Mycroft was right, it took a solid two hours by helicopter to get to Sherrinford. Molly felt bolstered by the two people sitting next to her. She was secretly grateful that they were coming along. Regardless of how confident she felt in her decision, meeting Eurus Holmes, the woman who understood Sherlock well enough to use Molly against him, was possibly the scariest thing she’d ever done. And Molly had dated a psychopathic serial killer.

The island and the building itself was just as terrifying as she thought they would be. Ominous, like a dark blight on the sea. The building was intricate, devoid of people. Mycroft ensured her that it was to increase security. Those in charge of security were not permitted to have direct contact with her, only through monitors. Not that she was saying much of anything. Mycroft informed her that his sister had not spoken two words together since Sherlock had left. Molly didn’t find that comforting. In fact, she found it quite sad. Anthea went to check in with security while Mycroft led Molly to where Eurus was being held. He stopped at black double doors which required a biological scan in order to gain entry.

“I have to go in with you,” he told her as he waited patiently for the scan, “You’ll require my biological signature in order to get back out.” Molly could only nod, picking at the skin around her fingernails. She hadn’t done it for some time, old, nasty habit. But she was terrified.

When the doors opened, a long, gray hallway stretched out before her. On the one side was a cement wall. On the other, thick, bulletproof glass. She recognized the sheen of it, it unsettled her.

“Go,” Mycroft urged, placing a hand at her middle back, “I’ll wait here for you.”

Heart pounding, she did as he said, walking forward with her eyes locked on the glass side. There she sat in all her odd glory. White night gown, long black-brown hair. She sat with her back to the glass, staring at the wall ahead of her. It was covered in drawings, mostly of her brothers. Some of her parents. But smack in the center, a respectful distance from any other drawing, was a portrait of Molly, holding a phone to her ear, a small smile on her face. In it she wore the sweater and ponytail she’d worn when Sherlock made that fated phone call.

“I knew you’d come.”

Her eerie voice echoed down the hall, raspy from days of disuse, deep like Sherlock’s. Molly squared up to the window, refusing to flinch as the woman rose from the bed, turning sharply to face her. But, _that_ is when she flinched. Her eyes were just the same, just the same as his. She tilted her head, watching Molly, those same eyes analyzing and deducing her the way that he always did. Molly allowed it. She relaxed herself, allowing herself to be seen. Sherlock had been doing it for years, what could this woman see that he didn’t? Eurus let out a sharp laugh, and then turned to grab up her violin.

She played. And Molly watched her, listening. Mendelsohn, Paganini, Ravel, Bartok. She transitioned through them seamlessly, quite beautifully. Molly remembered the one time she’d listened to Sherlock play, at John and Mary’s wedding. Sure, he often fiddled with his violin in her presence, but he never actually _played_ for her. That would have to change. Molly could only draw one conclusion from Eurus Holmes’ playing. She was deeply, deeply sad.

“You play beautifully,” Molly said quietly, bringing Eurus’ playing to a sharp halt. The woman stared at her, violin falling to her side. “He does too, though, doesn’t he? It’s something you share.” She looked around the woman’s room, her cell, at the things collected there. “You don’t have to talk to me, obviously. I just—I wanted to see you. For myself.”

“You’ve fucked him.”

Molly was slightly put off by her blunt comment, how rude it seemed to be. She had no intention of being cowed into submission. Not by someone who’d used her so cruelly to get to Sherlock.

“So what if I have?” She crossed her arms. “You don’t want details, do you? Hear how he performed?” Eurus smiled at that, evidently impressed.

“So Mikey’s here, is he?” Eurus drawled, doing a slight pirouette towards the wall of drawings. Odd bird. “Tell him to go get it, then?”

“What’s that?” Molly asked, brow furrowing. Eurus merely lifted her brows.

“You play.” She held up the violin, ready to perform again.

“No,” Molly said, shaking her head, “I’ve never touched a violin.”

Eurus merely tutted. “You _play_.”

Molly reared back in understanding. Not in years. She hadn’t played in years, so how would she—?

“Your fingers, darling. They were playing my accompaniment.” She lifted her brows, “Unconscious, I should think.” She smirked again. “MIKEY!” Eurus waited only long enough for Mycroft to appear in her peripheral view, still staring down Molly. It sent a chill down her spine. “Be a dear and fetch the piano for Dr. Hooper. She has _so_ much to tell me.”

Mycroft opened and shut his mouth, in protest mostly. Then he turned to speak directly to Molly, speaking in a hushed tone.

“Molly, I have to advise against this.”

She smiled at him, genuinely, for his concern, and briefly touched his wrist.

“Do as she asked.”

He dipped his head to her, covering her hand with his own, “As you wish.”

Moments later two very large security guards were pushing in a spinet made of dark cherry wood. It was old. The type you’d find in a church basement or one of those historic homes they gave tours of. It reminded her of the one she’d learned to play on. The one her mother taught her with. Slightly surprised, Molly looked up at Eurus, suspicion leeching off of her. Eurus was staring at her, smiling brightly. Smug.

“You really do your homework, don’t you, Miss Holmes.”

She lifted her violin at the ready, “Familiarity breeds the best music, does it not?”

Molly accepted the stool one of the guards handed her, and placed it in front of the piano. She sat down deftly, her fingers brushing over the keys, remembering. Love and laughter, Christmas carols, jingles from ads on the telly. They told her she had a gift, could have been a professional. But then her mother died, and she didn’t find there was much reason to play anymore. She quickly went through her scales, letting her fingers readjust. She played a quick rendition of Claire de Lune, transition into an old Scottish lullaby her mother had first taught her.

Eurus accompanied.

No matter what piece, phrase, or composition, Eurus kept up improvising, playing along. She was good. But Molly stopped abruptly, pulling her fingers back from the keys when she realized how well Eurus had just learned the dearest connection Molly had to her mother. They watched each other carefully, feeling out the situation. And that’s when Molly finally understood. Eurus wasn’t playing along. She was mimicking. She wanted to understand.

“Show me,” Molly said grimly. Eurus nodded shortly and brought her violin to her chin.

Molly listened on as Eurus played _Lamento della Ninfa_. It was a heart wrenching rendition that Molly had only ever heard once in her life, onstage. It was a piece meant to break the heart, rip the soul to shreds, and send you home to your loved ones with a sad smile and a warm kiss. And she understood Eurus’ meaning well. This is what it looks like. This is what it seems. This is my own pain. And didn’t Molly know it well?

She accompanied, she let Eurus say her piece, let her express herself in the only way that she seemed to know how. It became abundantly clear to her, that losing Sherlock had left a gaping hole  in her world. Molly may not have been a genius, but she wasn’t an idiot either. Eurus had acted of her own volition.

So, she countered.

She remembered the exact thought she had when first seeing Sherlock. Remembered the piece she’d thought of playing him. Prokofiev Sonata No. 1 in F minor. Haunting, strange, with just a hint of melancholy. But that wasn’t always how she had seen him. Them together. She shifted into Chopin Etude No. 2, staying in F minor. But she changed again. Loving Sherlock wasn’t all beautiful themes and airy thoughts of romance. Liebesträume n°3, Liszt. There was more to it. She played through the types of love, the way she flailed like the consummate acolyte before a god, the way she’d welcomed him home like family, how her eyes fell over him with lust. But death came with him: Totentaz. She played it wildly, furiously, the anger and the pain of it bubbling up with every keystroke. Only barely could she hear Eurus’ howling tune following her, embracing this side of Molly’s love. Reveling in it. Was _this_ what it was to love Sherlock Holmes? Were you so innately tied to death? But from there, Molly went off script. There was no single piece that had ever summarized what she felt for Sherlock. What she felt for her friends or her family. She poured herself out onto the keys, exposing herself in a way Sherlock would have wrinkled his nose at. Eurus would counter with darker themes, swooping low into them as she pulled her bow sharply across the strings. Molly’s stayed light, soaring higher up, the laughter, the comfort, the wholeness. She remembered dancing at John and Mary’s wedding, Christmas with her parents alive and well, Sherlock’s homecoming.

Eventually it petered out, drifted into something soft and airy, which spun into Tchaikovsky’s _Valse sentimentale_. Home, comfort, the feel of Sherlock’s Belstaff under her cheek. It was only when she finished the closing theme that she opened her eyes and realized she was crying. She kept playing though, played out the piece to finish, as she’d been taught, and Eurus played with her, keeping with the music, changing nothing. Not agreement, Molly thought, resignation.

When she finished, Molly realized she had lost track of Eurus throughout their playing. The woman was red-faced and fuming, chest heaving in her anger. She looked to be sweating, eyes glaring daggers right through Molly’s heart. With a short sigh, Molly dropped the lid over the keys and stood to face her. What Molly had, Eurus couldn’t comprehend. Or take. Mind games. Threats of death and violence, they meant nothing in the face of what lived inside her.

“It’s not a competition, Eurus. I love him. And you…you’re a part of him, whether you like it or not.”

Eurus didn’t move or speak. She just stared, chest moving up and down. There was so much hatred in her, so much contempt for what she obviously couldn’t understand. Just hollow repetition.

“Mycroft?” she said softly, “We’re finished here.”

He came and took her hand, pulled her arm through his, “I shall see you in a few days, Eurus.” But Eurus said nothing, only sat down with her violin again, staring at the wall in front of her.

They left the building to the sound of her playing Strauss’ _Metamorphosen._


	7. If You Talk Enough Sense, Then You'll Lose Your Mind

Mycroft and Anthea dropped Molly back at work, not wanting Sherlock to be suspicious in the least. He, of all people, would be able to tell if she hadn’t taken the tube home after work. To be fair, though, he would probably notice something was amiss the moment she walked through the door. She spent the tube ride trying to calm herself, remind herself that Eurus was locked away tight. That there would be no mistakes this time. It wasn’t comforting. Mycroft gave Eurus far too much credit. But she thought, perhaps, that the threat of Sherlock’s leaving would keep her in place. For now. It was enough to return her heart rate to normal, anyway. Still, her fingers felt tight. She hadn’t played so much in such a long time, her fingers ached to touch the keys again.

On her walk to the flat, she reached a decision.

She took the stairs two at a time up to her flat, and burst through the door. Sherlock, standing in the kitchen, whirled around sharply at her entrance, baffled. With a smile, Molly just dashed over and threw herself into his arms. Lovely, brilliant man that he was, Sherlock didn’t question her odd enthusiasm, just caught her easily around the waist. She snogged him senseless, never feeling so connected to him. He met her kiss for kiss, holding her up without problem. She bit at his bottom lip, then pulled away, lining their faces up, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. She rocked their foreheads together.

“Hi,” she muttered.

“Hi to you too. Feeling all right?”

She nodded, “Need your help.”

“Case?”

“No, but I think you’ll like it.” She tapped on his shoulder to set her down. Without a word of explanation, she grabbed his hand and dragged him to the lift. Storage was in the basement. You had to pull a dangling cord to turn on the lights. It was track lighting, quite dim, and the floor was somewhat damp from London’s lovely precipitation problem. Not that her landlord would ever fix it. Her unit was down at the end of the hall, mere pine slats and mesh wiring keeping it in. Sherlock hummed his displeasure with the security, eyes wandering over the unity with scrutiny. He was obviously looking for a way to secure it. Molly just rolled her eyes, and went for the large object covered in a blue tarp. She pulled it away, sighing at the revelation.

“Your sister is quite remarkable, did you know that?” she murmured, letting her hand drift over the top of the lid.

“Molly?” She didn’t bother looking at his concerned expression.

“Almost an exact replica,” she murmured, the look, the color, the wood. “She must have seen a photograph.” She bent to look under the piano, at her name carved there. She’d done it listening to her mother play Liszt for her father. She turned her head to look up at Sherlock, who was staring back, adorably confused.

“Mind catching us up?”

She sighed and stood, staring down at the instrument she’d grown up loving, “My mum taught me to play the piano.”

“I know.”

“You _know_?”

He bobbled his head a little guiltily, “Maybe I watched a tape or two…”

“Or ten?” she laughed.

“Or all of them…” he confessed. “It was watch your Christmases and holidays and recitals or go mad thinking about what came next with Moriarty.”

She went up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips, “Glad you chose me.”

He hummed, eyeing her warily, “So you met Eurus, then?” Molly could only nod. “And how did you find her?”

“Incredibly sad. Angry.”

“And she knew you played the piano?”

Molly lifted the lid, letting her fingers drift over the keys. “She knew. And she’d acquired a perfect replica of this piano. It was my mother’s. My grandmother taught her to play on it, and then she taught me. It’s all I have left of her.”

She felt Sherlock’s arms come around her waist, “She had you play.” And Molly nodded.

“She wanted to know. I think…I think the words don’t make sense to her. But the music…It doesn’t matter, she doesn’t believe what I believe.”

“Sentiment,” he said, huffing a laugh.

“ _Indeed_.”

And that did make him laugh. Molly leaned into it, let herself feel his movement against her. Eurus believed that this, what they had between them, was shrouded with petty jealousies, torment. But that was only a small part of it. Even death, separation. It was only a small part of it. Even if Molly could remember life before Sherlock, she didn’t really want to.

“Help me bring it up?” she asked quietly. “I want to play.”

It took some doing. But luckily it was an old schoolhouse piano, so there were wheels. It wasn’t very large either, so it fit into the freight lift. Navigating it into the flat was difficult, but Sherlock didn’t complain even once. He almost managed to get it in without scratching a single bit of wood. The first thing Molly did was grab the wood oils and her tuner, and set about cleaning and caring for it like she should have been doing before. By the time she was finished, it gleamed and played perfectly. Sherlock sat on the sofa watching as she worked, hands steepled in front of his chin. When she looked back, she could see a hint of a smile on his face, and she smiled back.

“Requests?”

He smirked, “ _Grande Fantasie de Bravoure sur la Clochette de Paganini_.”

Molly giggled, “Cheeky.” But she played it anyway. Not as well as she would have a few years back. It was a technically difficult piece, quite complex to follow let alone remember. She missed a few bits, had to jump over hazy sections, and fumble her way around.

“Don’t laugh, you prat,” she said airily. “I haven’t played this in years.”

“Keep on, you’re doing horribly.”

“Shut it!”

She kept playing through it, right up until the end, but transitioned into something much smoother. A waltz she’d only heard live once, but had read several times through. His silence reverberated.

“Mary showed it to me.” Each phrase was drawn carefully out, done from memory, but lovingly. “Not hard to translate,” she turned back slightly, “But I presume that was done on purpose?” When he didn’t answer, she turned back to the keys. “She loved it, you know, how much you love John. But when you wrote this, she knew you loved her too.” She let herself go with it for the next few stanzas. “Did you know she kept a recording of it on her mobile?” Molly nodded through the next phrase. “She would play it for Rosie. Put those dreadful headphones on her belly and played it over and over.” She let out a soft laugh. “She played it so often that I memorized it.” She finished it with a flourish. “I knew right then how much you could love. Knew being with Tom was a mistake.” Molly turned in her bench to look at him. His eyes were bright and wet, he held his face in his hand, elbow propped up on the arm of the sofa, watching her.

He shrugged, “You think I haven’t composed for you.”

“Have you?”

He bit his lip and then stood up, “Budge over.”

Molly smiled brightly, eyes watching his movements as he took a half of her bench. He sat down with a bit of a dramatic flourish, eyes sliding seductively over to her. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks, excited and overly pleased that he was being so compliant. Her stomach flipped when he played the opening bars. It started light and quick, it bounced and rolled, but it was a little sharp. He was describing how it was when they first met, their interaction. He’d battered her with questions, she shot back the correct answers without hesitation, giving him just the information that he used to quickly solve two different crimes. They’d worked together ever since. His playing became somewhat darker, a bit slower, it bloomed and billowed, and made Molly feel incredibly sad. It crescendo’d into a startling peak, which quickly dropped off into something softer and warmer. It became sweeter and slower. Really quite beautiful, actually. Molly dropped her head onto his shoulder, knowing it wouldn’t disrupt his playing.

“I could keep playing,” he murmured. “It goes for a while.”

“No,” she said sleepily, “Let’s go to bed.” She felt him nuzzle into her hair, but his fingers kept moving over the keys.

“Are you sure? You’ve not eaten.”

“Not hungry. Just want you.”

He sighed, standing up and holding his hand out to her, “Come on then. Up you get.”

“What did you today?” she asked, getting to her feet.

“Texted John. Ignored Graham—”

“Greg.”

“…played with Rosie. Mrs. Hudson made me tea. Came back here. She brought us groceries.”

“Why must you torture that poor woman?”

“She _likes_ doing things for me, Molly.”

“How do you go from darling to ponce in less than five seconds? Explain that.”

“Because I’m exceptional. Obviously.”

She smirked, tossing her shirt, “All right then, Mr. Exceptional, _impress_ me.”

Molly tried to dart away when he grabbed for her, but he managed to snag her wrist. It was enough leverage for him to pull her up against him, ensuring her capture by snaking an arm around her waist. But then he released her wrist, holding her hand at shoulder height instead.

She giggled, “Don’t tell me.” But Sherlock only lifted his brows cheekily as he began the steps of a rather complicated waltz. Molly did her best to keep up with him, laughing every time he corrected her, much to his disapproval. While she certainly had the energy to keep up, she definitely did not have the skill or finesse.

“You,” he muttered, “Are a disaster.”

“There’s no music!” she protested, laughingly as he swung her out for spin. Molly immediately curled back in, wishing he’d taken off his shirt as well. “How can I be expected to keep time with no music?”

He scowled, “You’re supposed to follow me.”

“Blindly?”

“Of course!”

This just made her laugh harder. Instead of keeping up with the dance, she threw her arms around his waist and nuzzled into his chest. Before Moriarty, before all of _this_ , he would have stood there with his arms out, not sure what to do with them. She knew because she’d seen it happen. Mostly with overexuberant clients, but still. But now? Now, Sherlock wrapped an arm around her back and another around her shoulders so that he could cup the back of her head. Now he dropped his chin to the top of her head, planting a kiss there and letting out a contented sigh. This Sherlock was still so new to her. This Sherlock confused her a bit. No matter what he did or said, it was difficult to determine if it was genuine or if he was acting. Faking it until he made it. But the honeymoon period would fizzle out, this would settle into something more familiar. More comfortable. That was scary enough.

“I would have liked to have gone with you, you know.” His deep voice rumbled against her, vibrating in his chest. She would have liked to pretend he never said anything, pretended she didn’t have to talk about it.

“I know. I needed to do it alone.” Eurus wouldn’t have tried anything with Mycroft there. It would have been a useless exercise.

“Don’t see _why_ ,” he grumbled petulantly. Oh, poor Sherlock, people behaving not how he expects them to. Throws him for a loop. She tightened her squeeze around his waist.

“Pride, mostly.” The hollow words rang so unfortunately true to her ears. Simple, silly Molly, trying to prove herself to everyone. “I didn’t want her to be another faceless nightmare.” She tilted her head to look up at him, hoping that he could see her clearly without her having to explain. This wasn’t just another one of his villainous enemies, it was his _sister_. She couldn’t just…let that be. He brought his hand to her face, palm on her cheek, fingers brushing her hair back.

“Please don’t go without me again.” His voice had dropped to a harsh whisper, emotion tightening his throat. Molly’s heart clenched painfully, wishing she could fix it. Make it go away. Instead, she just nodded and accepted his kiss when he leaned down. She made it linger, poured herself into that kiss. Then she pulled back, resting her weight on his arm.

“Sherlock…When does this all go away?” He tilted his head. “I mean, I love this with us right now, but um…It just…none of it feels real.”

Sherlocked smirked, evading the question, “I can disprove that.” He bent to lift her, making her shriek and laugh as he tossed her onto the bed. She bounced once before he was following her down, snogging her senseless, covering her body with his own, trapping her there beneath him. _Bloody fucking hell_ , she loved him too much.

“I know what you mean, Molly,” he whispered against the skin of her neck as he trailed wet kisses down the side and to the front, down to her chest. “But trust me, I’ll get a case tomorrow and go right back to ignoring and infuriating you.” She chuckled as he latched onto her nipple through her bra. “But now I get to make it up to you when it’s over.” Without her knowing how, he slipped off her bra and tossed it. She gasped, pushing up against him. “Instead of fixing all your interns’ paperwork.” He nuzzled against her stomach and lightly bit the bottom lip of her belly button. “Or threatening your landlord. Or training your neighbor’s dog to bark when his sexcapades get too noisy…”

She slapped at his shoulder, making him smirk up at her. “I _knew_ that was you! I _told_ John—!” He cut her off with an open, messy kiss that had her toes curling. They made quick work of their clothes, pulling and tugging, not caring at all what was damaged.

When he finally went down on her, Molly had to bite her hand to stop from screaming. Bloody fucking fuck, he was good with his tongue. Like a true scientist, he experimented through trial and error, repeat testing what worked, discarding what didn’t. She talked him through it, ran a hand through his curls and tugged, lifted her hips against his mouth when he didn’t use enough pressure. Figured it out right quick, he did. He worked her over repetitiously, varying speed and pressure just enough to have her keening, whining, all but begging for release. It was all she could do not to think about repaying the favor in his chair at Baker Street. The thought had her clenching down and coming with a shout.

Immediately, Sherlock was climbing up, meeting her as she reached for his face. Their kiss was sloppy and reassuring, meant to distract. He hooked her leg over his arm and thrust sharply into her, angling her hips to make her scream. Molly grabbed for him, locking his forehead to hers as he pumped in and out, evenly, dragging out slow, punctuating each thrust with a twist. They kept their eyes locked on each other, breathing ragged, until they were shaking from effort. Molly’s release was slow and languorous, sparks shooting down her spine and legs, toes clenching into the mattress as her body desperately tried to keep Sherlock with her. He came with a muffled whine, his mouth on hers, grinding urgently against her, wanting closer, deeper.

“Molly, what are you doing to me?” he whispered, pained, as she kissed him.

“Ripping you apart,” she gasped, trying to catch her breath, “Don’t worry,” she pushed her fingers through his hair, kissed his pulse point, then nipped at his ear, “I know where all the pieces go.” He hummed, kissing her long and deep one more time. Then he slid down, using her stomach as a pillow, fingers sliding along her ribs.

“Does it always feel this…” his voice had gone deep and sleepy, he nosed into the curve of her belly, “this…” he repeated himself, the description escaping him. Molly put a soothing hand to his head, playing with his curls.

“Raw?” His only response was a short nod. “No, love, it doesn’t. It just takes some time.”

“How long?” he rasped. She could tell he was close to tears, which happened several times after they’d faked his death. He’s show up, looking haggard and desperate, and she would hold him on the couch while he sobbed. He never told her why, never told her what happened.

“I don’t know. Never can tell with these things, I suppose.”

“I—I’ve ignored it for so long…It’s too much.” She felt his shudder, felt the shake of his hands.

“Don’t worry, I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

“Maybe I should just lock you up here. Keep everyone away from you.”

She huffed softly, “Not exactly ideal.” She let her nails drag across his scalp in circles, soothing. “Just be patient. I’ll take care of you, you’ll take care of me, and eventually it won’t feel so uncomfortable.”

“I don’t know, Molly,” he whispered. “I think I’ll always love you too much. I’m scared that I’ll—”

She shushed him, “Love isn’t like that, Sherlock. Yes, we can hurt each other easily. And we will, probably, at some point. But the only way we can’t fix it is if we stop trying. As long as you keep trying, I’m always coming back to you.” He’d rolled his head to look up at as she spoke, watching her with those piercing eyes of his. Looking for signs of deception, no doubt, of _sentiment_. But she meant every word, felt them wholly.

“I don’t think I’ll ever deserve you.”

“Just keep your eyes on me, love, I’ve got you.”  

 


End file.
